


a fate far better than life

by izzybeth



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, Multi, References to Norse Religion & Lore, messing around with Norse mythology to suit my purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I always believed that death is a fate far better than life, for you will be reunited with lost loved ones." 3x06 Born Again</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fate far better than life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cartographies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographies/gifts).



> cartographies' letter said "Ragnar goes on a quest to get Athelstan from the underworld" and I mean come on, how could I not. Elves are jerks and the gods are totally unhelpful. Thanks to N for the excellent beta job, and Happy Yuletimes!

"I'm coming with you," Lagertha says. Ragnar tries not to react, but Lagertha raises an eyebrow at him. "You need me. You'll never make it on your own." She sighs. "And I love him too."

Ragnar nods. "Let's be off, then."

Lagertha looks up as two ravens fly over them. "Do you think he's in Valhalla? Or Freyja's Fólkvangr?"

"I doubt it," Ragnar says. "He didn't die in battle, and I can't imagine him as einherjar."

"Helgafjell, then," Lagertha says, eyes distant. "Friends and the warm hearth. That seems appropriate."

"No guarantees," says Ragnar, not looking at Lagertha. "We visit Hel first. It's the easiest to get to."

Lagertha raises her eyebrows. "Right, son of Odin, how does one enter Helheim without dying, anyway?"

"He might not even be there. He might have gone to his heaven." One raven cries out, the other responds, and the two disappear beyond the treetops. Ragnar ignores them, and shoves a silver chain into his shirt.

"You'd better hope he's in Hel, otherwise we might never see him again," Lagertha says. "And it would make sense; Baldr was murdered, and he is in Hel." Ragnar gives her a flat look, and she changes tack. "Where are we going?"

"We have to find Yggdrasil."

Lagertha wonders, not for the first time recently, if Ragnar is entirely well in his mind.

—

There's a cross on his grave. At least Athelstan assumes it's his grave. He has a feeling. It's not a pleasant one.

He doesn't feel dead. And this can't be heaven. The grave lies in that beautiful spot where he had taught Ragnar to say the Our Father. The leaves above his head rustle in the breeze. The waterfall shimmers in the sunlight. He can feel the sun and the wind on his face, touch the grass with his fingers, hear the water in his ears, smell the cluster of heather by his feet. It's all so perfect.

Like something out of a tale.

He doesn't really remember his death. He knows it was violent, but somehow his thoughts slip away from the particulars, like rain off an oilcloth. It couldn't have been in battle, because this isn't England, nor is it Francia. Ragnar had his body buried, not burned.

No, Ragnar had buried him. He knows that like he knows Ragnar loves him. Bonedeep.

Ragnar had buried him with his own hands, and Ragnar had set the cross at his head. Ragnar had piled the stones over him.

Athelstan has never felt so alone.

A hand appears in his field of vision, the hand of an old man, palm up. Not wizened, not gnarled; worn but still strong. His own hand slides into it with no permission from his mind, and he is drawn to his feet.

He looks up, and sees a very tall old man with one eye. Athelstan stops breathing for a moment. The face is strange to him, but the eye is Ragnar's. That disconcerting, familiar, ice blue eye is set deep in a wrinkled, white-whiskered face. It stares at him from beneath a bushy eyebrow. Where the other eye should be, the lid covers an empty, dark space. The man wears a large, wide-brimmed hat and a long grey cloak, and carries a tall staff in his other hand. On top of the staff sits an enormous raven. Another sits on the man's shoulder.

"Do you know me?"

Athelstan nods silently.

"Good; I simply have too many names to choose one now," says the man. "I know you as well, little brother." He doesn't let go of Athelstan's hand. "You must come with me."

"Where?" Athelstan asks carefully.

"Death answers all questions. Even those that you never thought to ask." The Allfather raises an eyebrow. "Even your endless ones." He moves away from the waterfall, from the grave. Athelstan tries to fix them in his mind, his last glimpses of home. "Come, now."

And they go.

—

It's an oak. It's an ancient, giant oak, to be sure, but it could be any other ancient, giant oak in the forest. Three great roots sink into the earth, and if she unfocuses her eyes, they seem to writhe slowly, working themselves down into the dark soil. There's a certain ominous air about the tree, its trunk and branches dark with weather and age reaching up and up, higher than all the other trees.

Lagertha watches Ragnar circle its base, looking for something.

It isn't that she doesn't believe in the gods, in Valhalla, that Ragnar is descended from Odin, but for this tree to be Yggdrasil? For Yggdrasil to be a place in Midgard that anyone can find if they know where to look? She will eat her favorite shield if it's true.

Ragnar waves at her, catching her attention. He beckons her to where he stands, looking down between two of the roots. There's a gap, dark as death and just as mysterious, and Lagertha keeps a good grip on her imagination. It's just a hole. Probably full of dead leaves and insects.

Ragnar drops his axe to the ground, and does the same with the knives he keeps in his belt and boot. "You too," he says, and Lagertha clenches her hands around her axe and shield.

"No."

"You must leave your weapons," Ragnar says. "We will never enter Hel with them. There is no war there." He frowns when Lagertha hesitates. "Do you want to find him or not?"

Lagertha tosses her shield to the ground, removes her axe from the ring on her belt, and drops it atop the shield. "That's my favorite shield, Ragnar. I'd better get it back."

He doesn't respond, but takes Lagertha's hand and maneuvers himself feet first into the gap between the roots. "Don't let go; I don't know what will happen if we are separated." He slides down into the darkness, and Lagertha follows, cursing herself for a fool.

She falls and falls,  
flying and falling,  
the mist and murk  
in her eyes and ears.  
Walls of stark stone streak past;  
sour scents assault her senses;  
elves eye her as she falls.  
Ragnar's hand holds hers  
and she shall not let go. 

Their backs slam into black stone which knocks the breath from their bodies. When Lagertha catches her breath, she finds that dark figures are closing in around her and Ragnar. She gets to her feet quickly, and wishes she had not left her axe at the foot of the tree.

"Ragnar. Where are we?"

He does not release her hand. "I'm not sure. I think it might be Svartálfheim."

"So these would be dark elves."

"I would assume."

Lagertha does the only sensible thing she can think of, and holds her free hand up to show that it is empty. Ragnar does the same.

One figure comes forward, and the dim light outlines its face. Its features are sharp and smooth, its skin is pale, and its eyes black and glittering. The figure is truly otherworldly; like a human but not a human at all. "Mortals." Its voice is thin, almost a hiss. "How have you come to this realm?"

"We fell down Yggdrasil's root," says Ragnar. "We had intended to end up in Helheim; we did not intend to come to your realm."

"Yet here you are," says the elf. "What shall we do with you?"

"You could release us," says Ragnar. The elf raises its eyebrows, and Lagertha shoots him a withering look. "Worth a try."

"We should send you straight back up to Midgard, through the ocean to be devoured by Jörmungandr." Some of the other elves hiss in excitement. "Or to Múspellsheim to burn, or to Niflheim to freeze." The hissing grows louder.

"We are only searching for a friend," says Ragnar, hands still raised. "He may be in Hel's realm, which is why we were trying to get there."

"Mortals belong in Midgard, and nowhere else," says the elf. "How dare you step outside your own realm. We should kill you ourselves for your presumption." It raises a hand, and a sword appears in it.

They are surrounded completely. The elf takes a step toward the two, and all the other elves step forward as one. Their feet echo off the black stone in one loud clap, and Lagertha would be lying if she claimed to be unafraid.

"Make them night," the elf says.

All the other elves hiss "Night!" in unison.

"Let go of my hand," Lagertha mutters.

"That is a bad idea," Ragnar says.

"Let go," Lagertha insists, and pulls her hand from his. She pulls flint from a pocket, crouches down, and strikes it upon the black stone. Sparks fly everywhere, and the mass of elves jump back, hissing and skittering away from the two.

"Good," says Lagertha, and takes Ragnar's hand again. She takes an awkward step forward and strikes the flint on the rock again. The elves jump even further from the ensuing sparks, and together Lagertha and Ragnar make their way through them.

They are forced to stop when they come to the edge of the black stone. Lagertha looks over her shoulder while continuing to make sparks to keep the elves away. She can see only a short way down, and then the blackness swallows up what little light there is. "It's bottomless," she says. "We have nowhere to go."

"Give me the flint," Ragnar says. Lagertha hands it off, and the elf takes the opportunity to thrust its sword at them. Ragnar throws more sparks in its direction. "Do you trust me?"

Lagertha sighs. "Have I ever not?"

Ragnar smirks mirthlessly. "We jump." He cracks the flint on the stone one more time, hard. Sparks hit some of the elves, who shriek and yowl. The others keep their distance. Ragnar stuffs the flint into his pocket. "Let's go."

And they jump blindly into the blackness.

They land on their backs with a thump. There is light, but the white mist is so thick that Lagertha can barely see Ragnar, though he still holds her hand tightly. She moves closer to him, and he comes into view. He squints into the mist.

It's impenetrable, worse than a spring fog. The ground is utterly featureless beneath their feet. Bare packed dirt, no grass or flowers, and unnaturally flat. The air has a chill to it and is still, stiller than ought to be possible. It's like nowhere Lagertha has ever been.

"Are we— Where are we?"

"Helheim," Ragnar says, still peering into the mist. The place is otherworldly enough that Lagertha believes him. She looks up, hoping to see the roots of the tree, but there is nothing but mist.

"This way," says Ragnar, and steps forward. Lagertha doesn't bother to ask how he knows that. "Don't let go."

They walk for what seems to be a very long time, but the mist does not lift and the featureless ground does not change. At one point, a raven caws somewhere far off, and she feels a rush of wings above her head. She ducks, but Ragnar doesn't. They keep walking.

Between one step and the next, a wind picks up and the mist blows away. A stone wall rises in front of them, so tall that it must be the work of the gods. No man could ever build something so immense. A wooden gate is set in the wall, dwarfed by the rest of it. Even so, the doors are many times the height of the tallest warrior. They are clearly thick and strong, and braced with iron bands. And they are shut.

In front of the gate sit three men, each on a golden throne of ascending heights. Ragnar nods to them.

"Warriors do not belong in Hel," says the first man, on a high throne.

"These two aren't even dead," says the second, on the next-highest throne.

"Now that's interesting," says the third, on the highest throne of all. "How did two living warriors find their way to Hel from Midgard?"

"I am Ragnar Lothbrok, son of Odin," Ragnar says, "and I have come to recover something I have lost."

The three men pause to look at each other, and then they laugh. Lagertha gives Ragnar's hand a warning squeeze, but he doesn't seem to be about to lose his temper. He simply waits. Lagertha bites her lip and worries.

"All right, Midgardian," says the first man on the high throne, "we're intrigued. I call myself High."

"I call myself Just-As-High," says the second man on the next-highest throne.

"I call myself Third," says the man on the highest throne. "What have you lost, that brings you to the realm of Hel?"

Ragnar flinches, just a tiny bit, just enough for Lagertha to see, close as she is. "I have lost a friend. Part of my family."

" _Our_ family," Lagertha corrects, disinclined to let the men do all the talking.

"To death?" Third asks.

"He was murdered," Ragnar says calmly, as though Lagertha cannot see that the word slices him up.

"He raided with you? Fought for you?" Just-As-High asks.

"Yes," says Ragnar.

"Then why not search Valhalla?" High asks. "If a living mortal such as yourself can find his way to Hel, surely he can travel the Bifröst to Asgard."

"It is unlikely he is there," says Ragnar. "He did not die in battle, and would not choose that hall for himself if given the choice."

"And you are sure he is here?" Third asks.

"No," says Ragnar. The three men eye him narrowly. "But it is a possibility, and so I must search." Third nods, and the other two nod as well. "Is he here? Has he been brought to Hel?"

"Oh, we have no idea," says Just-As-High. "There are no lists of those who walk the deathlands."

"But _she_ knows," says High.

"Of course!" Third says. "She knows the name of every person who has entered those gates."

As if in answer, the enormous gates shudder and boom on their hinges. But they remain closed; instead, the wicket gate opens and a young woman steps through. Her hair is black as a night with no moon and down to her bare feet, and her dress is shabby undyed wool. As she comes closer, Lagertha sees that the woman's skin is half shockingly pale, as though she has never seen the sun, and the other half is a deep blue.

High, Just-As-High, and Third climb down from their thrones and bow before her. She sighs at them and rolls her eyes, and turns to Ragnar and Lagertha. The three men close into a little knot behind her to watch.

"Lady Hel," Ragnar says. Of course, Lagertha thinks. Hel herself would know every soul that entered her realm.

"Yes, what, I was busy," Hel says, looking put out.

Ragnar pauses, wrong-footed by Hel's response. Lagertha steps forward before Ragnar gets them both booted out before they find out what they need to know. "Lady Hel, we're looking for someone. Perhaps he has come to your realm."

Hel sighs again. "Name, I need a name." She seems bored and impatient at the same time. "I can't just magically know who you're talking about."

"His name is Athelstan," says Lagertha quickly.

Hel thinks for a moment, and then frowns. "Are you sure?"

"Er, yes," Lagertha says. "We know him well."

"There's no one here by that odd name," says Hel. "Though it has been some time since I did a thorough inventory. Describe him."

"He's about so high," Lagertha says, waving a hand at about her own height, "he has black, curly hair, and bright blue eyes. He's a rather young man. Oh, and he's English."

Hel's eyebrows draw together in exasperation. "These words you say to me. English, what is an English?"

"It is the land that he is from," says Ragnar.

"I know of no land called English, nor of any souls in my realm who are not Midgardian," says Hel, clearly losing her patience.

"Can we not... have a look?" Ragnar asks.

Up until now, Hel had looked nothing so much like a female version of Bjorn at fifteen, but now her face turns dark and stern; and though she does not change shape at all, she seems to tower over even Third's highest throne. _"Have a look?"_ The goddess of the dead asks. Lagertha keeps a good hold on Ragnar's hand. "None who pass through my gates ever return. Your friend is not here. Be gone from my realm."

She gestures with a blue hand. The wind picks up again, the mist swirls around them, and Hel and the the three on their thrones disappear.

Lagertha is lifted off her feet, but  
her hand holds Ragnar's tightly.  
The fog feels thick, like a thief  
with heavy hands.  
Up they rise, rushing swift and swirling,  
straight through stone and stillness,  
breaking branches and rending roots. 

She crawls out of the gap between the roots, Ragnar close behind her. They're covered in dirt and bruises, and they gasp for the breath that the wind stole from them.

They collapse on their backs and stare up into Yggdrasil's branches. Two ravens alight on a branch, frightening a squirrel and driving it away. Their weapons lie in a pile close to Ragnar's hand.

He turns his head to look at Lagertha. "Believe me now?"

She just nods.

—

They are nowhere. All around them is nothing. Athelstan can see his traveling companion, but otherwise there is nothing to see. They travel between worlds, feet falling on emptiness.

The Wanderer pauses to let his ravens land on his shoulder and staff. The one on his shoulder chatters quickly into his ear, and the other nods and clacks its beak.

"Indeed," the Allfather says to them, and they fly off again. He turns to Athelstan, hand still held tight in his. "Your friends are searching for you."

"My friends?"

"The one who calls himself my son, and his shieldmaiden."

Athelstan's mouth quirks. "Lagertha would take offense at that," he says quietly.

"Undoubtedly," says the Allfather.

"Why are they searching for me? Ragnar—" Athelstan's throat swells so that he cannot speak for a moment. "Ragnar buried me. They know I'm dead."

"That's true," says the Wanderer. "But they seem to care for you deeply." He pins Athelstan with his single, arresting eye. "You will have to make a choice."

"What choice?"

"Whether to return to Midgard with them, or continue on into the afterworlds."

"I don't—"

"Do not think to choose now." He turns away and moves through the vast nothing, pulling Athelstan with him.

—

"So what now, son of Odin?" Lagertha picks up her shield and slides her axe back into its ring.

"Helgafjell," Ragnar says shortly. He gets to his feet, gathers his weapons, and walks away from the tree.

Lagertha looks up into the branches, then quickly presses her hand to the trunk of the tree. She does believe now, how could she not? But she still worries that the loss of Athelstan has damaged Ragnar's mind; that he holds onto false hopes; that Athelstan has gone to his Christ's heaven and will be nowhere they are able to look, no matter the magic Ragnar is apparently able to access.

"And how do we get there?"

"We'll need a boat."

With the help of the clever compass  
and a boat blessed by cunning Loki  
and Freyja's father Njörðr of the seas,  
they cross the cold waters  
to a lost land, empty of people.  
Ragnar's instincts are proved right  
when they step onto the stones and sand  
of the silent shore. 

—

The early morning sky is a pale blue and the sun tints the clouds orange and yellow as they wash their hands and faces in the freezing lake and turn to face the holy mountain. It stands alone in the middle of a plain, and the plain is circled by much higher mountains, their bare peaks covered in snow. Helgafjell itself crouches lower, its sides and summit covered in grasses and stones. Atop it, though, is a beautiful mead hall: its timbers are traced with silver, its windows fitted with perfect clear glass, and its roof's tiles are made of the brightest gold. It shines in the sun like the rarest treasure of the Æsir.

Their weapons lie in the boat miles away on the shore; there is no one in this isolated land, and in any case, weapons would be inappropriate to carry on the holy mountain. "There are rules," Ragnar says. "First, we must climb without speaking, and without looking back."

"And what happens if we do speak or look back?"

"Then we don't get what we want," Ragnar says, fixing his feral eyes upon her. It's plain to Lagertha that nothing will keep Ragnar from getting what he wants. "Second, face the rising sun and ask the gods for a favor. Your heart must be clean and free of deceit, and the favor you ask must be only for good."

Lagertha crosses her arms. "Anything else?"

"Then we climb down, and we don't speak of what we asked for."

"It should be fairly obvious, shouldn't it?"

"No one has ever accused the gods of making sense," Ragnar says. It's the most humor Lagertha has seen from him since… since Athelstan has been gone. "Would you know yet more?"

"Ragnar—"

And just like that, the humor vanishes. "Do not plague me with your worries, woman."

Ragnar sets off toward the holy mountain, but Lagertha catches his arm and hauls him back. "Do not speak to me that way, Ragnar Lothbrok. I am— I know you miss him. I miss him too. But what if we have come all this way for nothing?"

"You think I would come this far to stop now?"

"What if he cannot be found?"

"Then at least we tried."

"And if he cannot return with us?"

"Then at least I will have been able to see him and speak with him one last time."

Ragnar shakes his arm free and heads toward the mountain again. His eyes are full of misery, and all Lagertha can do is follow him.

The holy mountain's slope is steep  
and loose stones slide under Lagertha's heels.  
Wind whips her hair into her eyes  
but her feet do not falter.  
(She glimpses dark hair above the hilltop,  
curls catching the sunlight. Sight deceives her.)  
Ragnar's back is broad, and  
his silence solid as a wall. Lagertha  
grips the grasses with her hands  
and does not look back. 

—

"They are here," says the Allfather, and he is gone as Athelstan turns to him. No hand in his, no ravens, no piercing blue eye. Athelstan is alone.

He knows he has to make a choice, and he will have to make it soon. He has a feeling that once he steps inside the beautiful mead hall, he can never return to Midgard. He drifts close to it, as if drawn by an invisible means. The doors are open, and the golden light spilling out is warm and welcoming, the color of good ale. He can see indistinct figures moving inside, can hear talk and laughter. He can't identify the people, but somehow he feels he knows some of them.

Athelstan slowly turns away from the mead hall. He hasn't yet made his decision.

"Athelstan."

He looks up, and two ice blue eyes catch his own. Ragnar looks as if all his color has been washed out of him, as though he has been through a version of hell made specifically from his own worst fears. Athelstan is in Ragnar's arms before he realizes his feet have moved. He is crushed to Ragnar's chest, eyes squeezed shut, his own arms wrapped tight around him. He breathes in Ragnar's scent, and feels him do the same in the curls at the top of his head.

Something is yet missing, though, and Athelstan flails a hand out. A warm one grasps it, and he pulls Lagertha into the embrace. Her warmth warms them both, and Athelstan is home.

They stand there in their little knot for a long time, or a short time, or long enough for worlds to swirl into existence and disintegrate into dust again. It doesn't matter. All that matters, Athelstan knows, is that it is a moment, and that all moments end.

"Return with us," says Ragnar, muffled by Athelstan's hair. "I don't want to— you must come home."

Athelstan curls tighter into their arms. "This is home," he says. His cheeks turn pink at the admission (or is it the wind, buffeting their bodies on the hilltop?), but if he doesn't speak what he feels now, when can he? He's dead.

"We've traveled very far, searching for you," Lagertha says. "Please— please, Athelstan."

Athelstan disentangles himself and looks at them both. They found him, after searching who knew how many worlds, through gods knew what kind of adversity. He still can't fathom why, but they decided he was dear enough to them to leave Midgard and drag him back from death. They are, together, the best thing he's ever seen, and he fixes them in his mind. "I don't think I can."

Ragnar is silent. Lagertha clutches at Athelstan's hand. "Why? Of course you can, we've come this far." She pulls Athelstan close to her again. "I don't understand. Why would you not return to those who love you?"

"The Allfather said I had to choose," says Athelstan. "And I— I don't belong in the living world any longer."

"No." Ragnar takes Athelstan by the shoulders and shakes. "No, I do not accept it. You come back with us." His hands are steady, but his voice wavers. "Now."

"I'm sorry," Athelstan says. "I love you both. But—" He shakes his head. "You have so much to do, and I—"

"You will do it with us," Lagertha insists. "You will take Paris with us, and so many other places too. You are our family, and we will not leave this place without you."

Athelstan knows that his time is up. The mead hall pulls at him, and he knows that is where he is meant to go. And yet, it is still a choice. He wants to go inside, meet the people, find the ones he knows. He thinks perhaps this mead hall is not so far off from the heaven he always thought he'd go to in the end.

"If the gods— my God, your gods, any gods— are gods worth believing in at all, I will see you again." Athelstan wants to pull them close one last time, but is afraid he will never let go.

"You will not," Ragnar says, his words choked. "I don't think your god will be terribly pleased if I show my face in his heaven." He tries to smile, and it's horrible to look at. "I told that to you when I buried you. Did you hear me?"

Athelstan shakes his head. "No, I was alone until the Allfather took me. I saw the grave, though. Thank you, Ragnar." Ragnar wipes his face with an unsteady hand and nods. "Do you see that?" Athelstan points to the golden mead hall without taking his eyes from Ragnar. "That's where I'm going. It might be heaven; it might be one of your afterworlds. It might be both. And I want to go there. I think you have to want it."

"I will," says Lagertha suddenly. "I will keep the hope in my heart that I will return to this place and see you again." She smiles. "You must not forget me."

Athelstan laughs. "As if I could forget you, my lady." Lagertha grins and turns away to climb down the slope of the holy mountain.

And then Athelstan and Ragnar are alone. "I do not want to let you go." Ragnar's voice grinds and breaks, and his eyes are red. "We were not finished."

Athelstan bites the inside of his cheek. "We're not finished. We'll meet again."

"Do you swear it?"

"I'll be here. I will not forget you either. You must make Odin bring you here."

"Lagertha has faith," Ragnar says. "I cannot. You were taken from me once; who's to say you won't be again?"

Ragnar would not be so broken if he had been killed in a raid, he thinks. If he had died an honorable death, Ragnar and Lagertha would never have followed him into the afterworld. Memories of his death are still hazy: a cross in flickering candlelight, a small room at night, bright eyes, and nothingness. He shakes his head. "Please, Ragnar. Let me go."

Ragnar fishes a chain out from under his shirt and pulls it over his head. "Here. It's yours, anyway."

It's Athelstan's silver cross. Ragnar presses it into his hand, but Athelstan puts it back around Ragnar's neck. "Keep it. You might need it."

The warm, golden light of the mead hall tugs at Athelstan sharply. Ragnar grabs his hands in his own, and Athelstan holds them for a moment, but lets them slide away. Ragnar is so heartbroken that Athelstan can barely stand to look at him. He steps back, toward the mead hall.

Then all is light and beauty, bliss and love. Athelstan's heart is no longer being pulled in different directions. He is where he is supposed to be. He is at peace.

—

The serpents wind themselves around Ragnar's arms and legs. It's a strange sensation. Their little bodies are warm, not cold and clammy like he'd expected.

King Ælla knows how to hold a grudge, that is certain. How long had it been since the last time Ragnar thumbed his nose at the petty man? Years, maybe twenty years. He is a grandfather many times over, and Bjorn's first daughter is a woman grown. Bjorn himself holds many lands, and Ivar has proven himself to be a brilliant strategist, twisted legs be damned. Lagertha had fallen in battle only one or two years before, strong and defiant to the last.

The world no longer needs Ragnar Lothbrok, so he closes his eyes and lets the serpents bite.

Ragnar drops into darkness,  
but two hands reach towards him  
out of the vastness and the void.  
He grabs them in a strong grip  
and a massive mead hall  
appears around him,  
with silver tracings on the timbers  
and a roof of glorious gold. 

Athelstan stands before him, his hands in Ragnar's, as beautiful as the last time he saw him. Behind him, a crowd of people has come to greet him: Lagertha, smirking like she knows a very good joke; Gyda, tucked against her mother's side and grinning; Torstein and Arne, as inseparable as they ever were; Siggy and Thyri, standing close together and looking pleased; and many other familiar faces beyond.

They all surround him, greet him, clap him on the shoulders, embrace him, kiss his cheeks. Ragnar is finally home.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Very VERY loosely "inspired by" the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Very loosely. Not even based on. Basically has nothing to do with it.
>   * Except that Helgafjell is a real place in Iceland: "Helgafell is the holy mountain that figured so prominently in Icelandic history and literature. In reality, it's a 73-metre-high hill, yet it apparently still retains some of its magic, and those who follow a few simple rules while climbing it are entitled to have three wishes granted. First, you must climb the south-west slope to the temple ruins _without speaking or glancing backwards_ [my emphasis]. Second, the wishes must be for good and made with a guileless heart. Third, you must descend the eastern slope and never reveal your wishes to anyone." ("Helgafell" Lonely Planet - Destination Iceland)
>   * High, Just-As-High, and Third are from the _Gylfaginning_ and they don't actually hang around Hel but I thought they were kind of Laurel- &-Hardy-esque in an Old Norse epic quest sort of way so I stole them.
>   * I know Yggdrasil is not an oak. Yggdrasil is an ash. But I like oak trees, so.
>   * Did my best at some skaldic alliterative verse. Clearly didn't even try for meter, but this shit is hard, okay?
> 



End file.
